


asymptotes

by thebluehaze



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Adorable Grogu | Baby Yoda, F/M, Fluff, Found Family, Mandomera Week 2021, POV Grogu | Baby Yoda, Pining, day one: accidental physical contact, grogu has a plan folks, he won’t let these two pine forever, so be it, someone has to take some ~action~ and if that’s him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-26 03:27:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30099600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebluehaze/pseuds/thebluehaze
Summary: Grogu sighs like he’s grown used to hearing from the Mandalorian, drawn out and full of feeling.He has to do everything around here, apparently.—Or, Grogu watches the mutual pining between Din and Omera and figures he may as well take matters into his own hands.
Relationships: Din Djarin & Grogu | Baby Yoda, Din Djarin/Omera
Comments: 8
Kudos: 35
Collections: Mandomera Week 2021





	asymptotes

**Author's Note:**

> this,,,is so late. it was meant to be for mandomera week, and i wouldn’t tag it at all except it was absolutely inspired by the prompts and i want to give credit where credit is due. <3
> 
> from the prompt for day one: accidental physical contact. takes place during episode four. 
> 
> just a bit of soft pining for you guys. hope you enjoy!

The grass is soft beneath him, and Grogu finds himself running his tiny claws through it as he sits beside the armored man. The light from the sun reflects off the beskar and blinds him momentarily, until he leans to the side with a little huff, and then it merely leaves him feeling pleasantly warm. As the wind rustles a tuft of grass beneath his grasp, Grogu waves the tops of his feet backward and forward in pleasure. It tickles. 

He coos to tell the man to try it out himself, but he doesn’t seem to understand. The helmet doesn’t so much as twitch. 

Grogu is uncertain if he would be willing even if he did understand, because he’s never seen the man without his gloves. Or the shiny armor protecting him.

Grogu has often wondered these past couple weeks if protectors themselves get to have such a shield against the world to better help them serve their ward. Possibly to keep them safe when they decide to recklessly throw themselves in harm’s way to rescue the bounty they had mistakenly traded. Or, perhaps, to make them look every bit the role of warrior when they need to be intimidating.

Well. The armored man might appear on the outside to be a hardened soldier, but Grogu has seen the tenderness that his hands are capable of. He can’t be fooled. While one hand mercilessly blasted, flamed, and punched their way out of the lab, the other cradled him safely, gently, away from the fight.

It was a scary situation, but Grogu wasn’t frightened. There was danger all around, but he knew he was safe. 

He feels that same sense of security now, as the two of them sit side-by-side in the humid summer air on Sorgan.

When Grogu coos again, the Mandalorian still doesn’t react, staring off as he is into space. 

Grogu continues to swing his feet backward and forward as he traces the helmet’s line of sight and—hang on. His feet still. 

The Mandalorian isn’t staring off into space. He’s gazing at a pair of villagers camped out on the ground not too far from them. Within hearing distance, anyway. 

Grogu recognizes them. It’s the kind young girl who’s been teaching him how to catch krill from the pond—they haven’t managed it yet, at least not without some cheating on his part from inconspicuously drawing on the Force—the girl who laughs sweetly when he tries to swallow a live frog, _whole_ , and who sneaks him cookies when no one is looking. She brings just one and snaps it in half, and every time, she gives him the bigger portion. He tries to press a _thank you_ through to her, carefully weaves the words together and floats the sentiment toward her, but he can’t be sure if it reaches. She smiles at him while she hands him the sweet, so maybe. Maybe. 

And the girl’s mother beside her, a fiercely capable woman who seems to see through the Mandalorian’s armor, like Grogu can, but not exactly. He doesn’t feel any force-sensitivity around her, but still she gives the Mandalorian these looks that are so—knowing. And she anticipates his words almost before he says them, like when Winta asked to play with him for the first time and she put his worries to rest before they had even been voiced. 

If she can go toe-to-toe with the intimidating, beskar-clad warrior, never having witnessed the gentleness Grogu had seen from him, she must be tough. Or she must be able to see it in him, regardless of the armor that shields him. 

Whatever it is, Grogu likes her. 

Omera. He likes Omera, and her daughter, too. Winta. 

By the way the Mandalorian’s helmet is tilted softly as he watches them, Grogu thinks he might feel the same. 

Interested, if for no other reason than because the Mandalorian is, Grogu tunes in to hear them laughing quietly. The echoes of a birdsong are faintly evident in the background, a harmony in the undercurrents of their bright laughter. 

Omera sobers up first as she says, “You really should—“ 

Grogu feels the flash of a memory the two must have had earlier, some other day, coming from Winta. It’s so fast he can’t grasp onto it enough to tell any specifics, but it seems to mean something to Winta. “I know,” she replies confidently. 

Omera quirks an eyebrow and pauses for a second. “Well. I’m glad you can read my mind, then,” she says, and it sets them off in another round of mirth. 

In between the giggles and the gasps of breath, Winta manages to choke out, “You were gonna say that—“ She makes the mistake of looking over at her mother and has to stop as she snorts into her hand. She sucks in a breath and valiantly plows on, “—that I should apologize to Kuna, right?”

“Yes.” Omera smiles softly and reaches out to cup Winta’s face with the palm of her hand. “We’re the same person sometimes, huh? Hope you don’t mind being on the same wavelength as your mother.”

Winta leans into the touch for a second, then grins mischievously. She draws back as she says, “Nope. Not most of the time, no. When I walk into a room and forget what I was doing, though... That’s gotta be the part of me that’s you, surely.”

Omera laughs and nudges her shoulder into Winta’s. “Watch it,” she says fondly. 

Grogu turns back to the Mandalorian to share a smile with him, only to find that he’s watching Grogu now. He doesn’t mean to pry, but he can feel waves of longing and something else, too, something that pulls the Mandalorian’s shoulders down and inward—guilt, maybe? 

Grogu reaches out a hand to pat his leg. “Eh?”

The guilt and the longing flare even brighter, and there’s a burst of incompetence tinging the feelings with a frustrated self-doubt. Grogu glances back at Omera and Winta for answers, and he thinks he has it figured out. They’re so close they seem to be able to understand one another without even speaking, but he and the Mandalorian falter their way through communication with guesses and mistakes and luck. 

They’ll get there, though. It will just take time. Grogu coos, a little more urgently now, as he leans into the Mandalorian. _Forgiveness_ , it says, and _patience_. 

The Mandalorian sighs. “What is it, kid? You hungry?” 

Grogu hums. It’s not—exactly the message he was going for, but now that he thinks about it, he does feel the gentle rumble of his empty stomach. He’s always hungry, anyway. He won’t turn it down if the Mandalorian is offering. 

The Mandalorian brightens a little with the assumption that he got the exchange right. And maybe that’s true. He knew before Grogu even did. The Mandalorian straightens up and pulls the child with him as he stands to his feet. “It is lunch time, isn’t it?” he says. “I know I can count on you to keep track. Of the meals, anyway,” he tacks on fondly. 

Grogu leans his head back to give him a toothy grin, and he knows that, at least, translates just fine. 

He hears the grass rustle as Omera and Winta rise from the ground, too. “Can I make you two a bowl of soup to take with you?” Omera asks with a smile. 

The helmet dips into a nod. “Thank you. I’ll help.” 

The smile grows, softens. “You don’t have to—“

”I know,” the Mandalorian says, and Grogu can hear the answering smile in his own words, can feel the pulse of warmth that Grogu has really only felt directed at him before, now angled cautiously at the pair of villagers. 

Still carrying the child in his arms, the Mandalorian follows Omera and Winta as they lead the way to their home.

The Mandalorian is placed on stirring duty, and from the way he tilts his helmet gently at Omera like he’s seeing her anew, Grogu thinks she saved that for him so he can keep his gloves on in front of them. Winta washes the veggies, then spreads butter on the bread, and Omera does the chopping. Grogu is placed on “spit that out” duty, and sometimes “hey, scoot over, kid, I already have a shadow” duty. It’s not his fault someone has to be underfoot to clean up what’s dropped. He’s doing them a favor, really. 

There’s a unique understanding between parent and child, that is true, but watching the Mandalorian and Omera, Grogu starts to wonder if there’s a special language there, too. In the lingering glances that they share, and the way they stall the Mandalorian’s hand where it’s stirring the pot of soup and bloom a little swirl of pink on Omera’s cheeks. In the way they’re drawn to one another like magnets, but dance away before they can make contact. They’re asymptotes, destined never to cross. 

Grogu can tell they want to, though, so why don’t they? He should give them a little nudge, shouldn’t he? It would be the right thing to do, surely. 

When they’re positioned next to each other but still separated like a forcefield sits heavily between them, Grogu knows it’s time. He spots the unsharpened butter knife hanging precariously off the counter, so he waddles slowly toward it. When he reaches the counter, he knocks into it clumsily, and the knife begins to fall. 

Parental instincts kick in _hard_ , for both adults in the room. The two lunge for the knife faster than should be possible. He feels a mantra of _kid, kid, kid_ along with an underlying thread of protectiveness from the Mandalorian, and motherly concern and fear from Omera as their arms outstretch. The Mandalorian’s gloved hand wraps around it a split second before Omera makes contact, but Grogu can tell the moment they intersect with one another. When their hands brush together, the mantra from the Mandalorian fizzles out into shocked static, like he’s short-circuited. Grogu can hear a little strained gasp from him, and suddenly he’s jerking his hand away from Omera and, subsequently, the knife. Since his hand was the one holding it, Omera’s grasp falls away too, and the knife continues its dissent toward Grogu. 

Grogu sighs like he’s grown used to hearing from the Mandalorian, drawn out and full of feeling. 

He has to do everything around here, apparently. 

He raises a clawed hand and halts the knife in mid-air, leaving it to hover harmlessly a few inches above him.

Meanwhile, the Mandalorian is frozen, stance all tense and unyielding, while waves of conflicting emotions flow from him. Confusion, perhaps most of all, and an innocent yearning for what cannot be. Omera watches him, a gentle concern furrowing her brow and pulling her forward a step closer to him. 

”Um. Mama?” Winta says, staring curiously at the knife still suspended, and Omera halts to direct her gaze where her daughter’s line of sight seems to be pointed. 

Grogu lets the knife fall to the floor with a clatter, then, but not before Omera and the Mandalorian catch a glimpse of it hanging in the air. 

That seems to be the reboot The Mandalorian needed. He snaps out of his haze and curses under his breath in a language that’s even more foreign than Basic to Grogu, though it’s growing more familiar every day he spends with the armored man. He kneels in front of Grogu. 

”Sorry, kid. I’m sorry,” he croaks, and it still sounds strangled. “You okay?” 

Grogu trills out an affirmative, and the Mandalorian allows himself to wilt a little before he slowly rises, still placed in between Grogu and the other two people in the room. 

”He didn’t mean it,” he says firmly, though not unkindly. “His powers—they’re not dangerous, I promise.” 

”Hey, hey, it’s alright.” Omera says gently as she brushes a strand of hair out of Winta’s face. Winta takes the cue and nods, fast. After a moment of hesitation, Omera continues her path for the Mandalorian and places a hand on his arm. She does it slowly, so he can move if he wants to, but he stays still as his helmet tracks the movement. “I’m just glad he’s okay, no matter how it was managed.”

The Mandalorian shifts his gaze from her hand to her face, and he finally, _finally_ leans into her touch. 

Grogu smiles. His job here is done. It’s not quite what he had in mind, but, he thinks, perhaps it’s even better. 

The gentle yearning has lost its edge of _what can never be_ , traded it instead for _maybe one day_. A hopeful promise, to erase the sting of outright rejection that preceded. Dreams for the future cascade from all four, and it feels like family, this thread that connects them. 

**Author's Note:**

> the family dynamics between this group kill me. :’)


End file.
